


Koyaanisquatsi

by THHuxley



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Francis's Second Sight, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Power Imbalance, flirty Jopson, interwoven erotica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 23:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30079647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THHuxley/pseuds/THHuxley
Summary: An invisible line divides the officer’s world and the cold, damp, claustrophobic conditions in which the sailors dwell. A line petty-officer Thomas Jopson prefers to keep on the warmer, dryer, more spacious side of. If he is not daydreaming about food, he is concocting ways to stay in Captain Crozier’s quarters for longer intervals.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Koyaanisquatsi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EdwardNotSoLittle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdwardNotSoLittle/gifts).



> I don't know whether this is explicit or mature, most of it is tension and flirting, I just like Jopson being a flirt and Francis not knowing what to do.
> 
> The title is a Hopi Indian word meaning “life out of balance.”

An invisible line divides the officer’s world and the cold, damp, claustrophobic conditions in which the sailors dwell. A line petty-officer Thomas Jopson prefers to keep on the warmer, dryer, more spacious side of. If he is not daydreaming about food, he is concocting ways to stay in Captain Crozier’s quarters for longer intervals. 

Presently he is helping his subordinate, Billy Gibson, clean the officer’s cutlery, having seized the opportunity to dip his insensibly cold hands into hot, soapy water. As usual he rubs shoulder and elbow with the younger, taller officer’s steward, it is impossible not to be always pressed against another man down on this side of the line. 

The stove may be warm but the steam and sweat clings to one's hair and clothes, then cools and threatens to freeze if it is not wiped away. 

Their dingy little galley is pathetically lit by dim, amber, lopsided lamps that wreak of soar meat and cast impenetrable shadows over avenues of gnawing, hissing rats. One pest leaps over the kitchen countertop. After narrowly escaping Mr. Diggle’s carving knife it makes the grave decision to scurry in the Stewards’ direction. Thomas entraps it in a teacup and looks at Billy. 

“Finish up and I’ll drown it in the leftover water.” Thomas declares coolly.

“Perhaps there’s a more merciful way to dispose of it?” Billy asks sympathetically.

“A sailor’s death’s too good for a rat, says I.” Thomas quips in west cockney. Diggle chortles at this but Billy blinks in horror.

The head Steward on any ship was always extremely cruel to rats, Thomas had recently been after one with an intention to trample it to death under his boots and he had touched one of the exposed hot water pipes in the walls, burnt his hand. Every rat he killed since then reduced the pain of his burns. 

While Jopson fulfils the job of a cat in the galley, he knows Captain Crozier is on deck, at the bow of his vessel. The coldest thing he can imagine is the crew working in the hyperboreal waters, trying to free the ships, getting cold, wet, and raw. Watching them makes Francis feel even colder. 

The water is as good as turned to stone, amongst the sailors are men from mining families who now find their previous digging conditions enviable. Erebus and Terror are as idle as Van Dyke Brown painted ships on a lead white painted ocean.

Scurvy and lead poisoning came, threatening to destroy at once the aims of the ambitious and the hopes of love. For too long Sir John Franklin had derided the idea that there could be such danger while he pursued his plans of conquering the North-West Passage. He had so far succeeded, it was not till this second summer that, the destroyer, in one fell stroke, overthrew Sir John’s precautions, his security, and his life. One by one, poor Captain Crozier watched his comrades die.

The Ice Master warns Captain Crozier a whiteout is coming. He tells his Boatswain to call the men in and have them shelter in the ship till the hurricane subsides. As bodies squeeze aboard, stale air is squeezed out. While Thomas drowns the rat, he hasn’t even seen the cause of his own Hypoxia but he is able to deduce. 

Francis withdraws like a hermit crab into his cabin. His outer shell is dispassionate and austere, Jopson is one of the few men aboard who knows its thickness and what lies beneath it. He remembers to look beyond it when he meets Francis on the comparatively luxurious side of the invisible class line, with a hot pot of tea and a clothes brush at the ready.

Thomas deliberately takes twice as long to remove Francis’s coat this evening, Francis has nothing to say about it, only, he looks directly at Thomas, something he doesn’t normally do.

Thomas’s eyes flicker like a green flame at the Captain, briefly, before landing on the gold buttons again. “You’re breaking etiquette.” Thomas remarks with a posher glaze and a smirk, while pushing his stray lock behind his ear.

“That’s gone.” Francis regards  _ Etiquette _ as a depleted supply.

“What spooked you? You look pale with fear.” Thomas asks sympathetically, seeing straight through the Captain’s stoicism.

“Are you naïve to the danger we’re in, Thomas?” Francis asks him imposingly, his tone has turned low and sharp, like he’s warning of an imminent threat in the room with them. 

Thomas is growing anxious, he knows everything about The Terror’s predicament, only, he’s not certain how much he is meant to know. 

“I know the ships are stuck. There was a severe navigational error in May. It's too late in summer to move now so we’ll be stuck like this for another year, if the ice doesn’t crush us…  _ to atoms _ , as you put it.” he’s reassuringly accepting of the situation and doesn’t let it interrupt his work, as usual.

“Have you discussed this with anyone?” Francis questions with severe seriousness.

“No, sir.” 

“Good. Don’t. The last thing I need is a discontented crew.” 

“Lieutenant Fairholm will return with help and supplies in due course.” Thomas assures.

Francis continues to quietly watch Thomas while he tends to him. 

“I was wondering what that smell was...”

“I don’t smell anything, sir.”

“Do you still sow lavender into your clothes?”

“oh that.... it’s why none of my clothes get moth eaten.”

“Yes… I remember you telling me that a long time ago.”

“Is that what you smell?” Thomas laughs lightly. Francis wonders if that marvelous smile is mocking him. Then he supposes it doesn’t matter. 

Thomas takes his time hanging the coat up to dry and brushing snow and debris off it.

Francis tries to relax and gulps a tiny couplet of bitter, black tea down before it cools.

The steward takes a closer look at the frayed stitching on the captain's coat sleeve. "I should get this fixed. I can reinforce all the stitching too if you don't mind parting with it for a few days." Thomas offers. He turns his face back to Francis, “...Sir, might I work in this room? The light is better and it would save us some oil, working by the same lamp."

Francis doesn't register it, he's steeped in misserible thought. 

Thomas runs his hand over the hem and checks the pockets. He feels an unfamiliar little object and takes it out discreetly. He hides it in his fist and holds it behind his back when he turns to grin at Francis again.

"Guess what's in my hand, sir." 

Francis is amused, "How should I know?"

"Go on, I know you can see it. You’ve got a talent for this." Jopson eagerly insists.

Francis closes his eyes and concentrates. "...It's made of bone or ivory and looks like an animal… a polar bear charm."

"I'm impressed." Thomas beams and sets the trinket on the table. "Next time I'll try it with something more obscure."

Crozier laughs under his breath. He’s flippantly used his second sight to play Thomas’s game. The last time he used it openly it was to entertain the Erebite officers at a dinner, who were certain that Thomas was giving him some sort of signal or code to help him cheat at this sort of guessing game. 

Francis is usually aware of the thoughts of the people around him, but right now he doesn’t need the second sight to detect the thawing glee Thomas emits.

A more powerful mental force drives Francis cautiously to the stern. A chill radiates through the storm battered windowpanes and onto his face. He can’t see anything through the impenetrable whiteout with his eyes but he feels the monster is out there and he can hear its violent thoughts. Visions of blood soaked snow flash before him, his heart drums, fear descends upon him from all directions like a pack of ravenous wolves. 

Thomas can see there’s something very wrong with Francis. His pupils are dilated pin-pricks and his breath is picking up. “It’s after Lieutenant Fairholm!” Francis gasps in horror.

Thomas grasps Francis’s hand which snaps him out of his trance, “Captain. It’s alright. There’s nothing out there.”

Startled, Francis looks at Thomas, then his eyes turn calm and drift down to their entwined hands.

“You will not bear this burden alone, Captain.” Thomas swears. 

“I depend upon you, Thomas. You’ve very steady nerves.” Francis compliments him softly. He holds his hand closer and looks sadly at the yellowish burn marks on Thomas’s fingers. 

“Yours are steadier than mine, sir.” 

Thomas looks like he’s made of ivory and rose leaves. Francis feels like he could gaze at him for hours; Thomas should always be here in the whiteout when there are no stars to look at and nothing beautiful grows. 

The more he admires Thomas the more he disdains himself. He lets go of Thomas’s hand and makes for his whiskey decanter, which he intends to climb down into and disappear. 

Francis pours the glass unsteadily, a few spilt drops blot the maps on his table. He's shaking as he brings the cold glass to his lips, it rattles against his teeth. 

Thomas regards him with fresh disapproval. Then the younger man whips out a cloth, begins cleaning and humming absently to the tune seeping through the walls. The sailors are singing and fiddling down the hall, he cannot remember the words to this shanti.

Thomas starts daydreaming about food again; things he doesn’t even know how to eat such as whipped cream and lemon-meringue pie, he’s amused by the thought of disgusting Francis by eating it incorrectly, with his hands, and making a mess. He hopes it tastes nothing like the sour squeeze lemon the doctors have them take with their daily grog, perhaps a milder citrus; At home he afforded a satsuma every Christmas and ate each precious segment slowly to savour it.

As he ambles towards the book cabinet he stops dreaming and steals a glance at Francis. The Captain is stooped over his charts, wearing the most painfully bored expression Thomas has ever seen in his life. The captain is tapping his foot with nervous energy to the rhythm of a watch, he refuses to sit down as if to make up for an inability to move, his hand clips his crystal glass on repeat because he keeps forgetting he’s emptied it.

Thomas interrupts, “I’m sure it’s very frustrating being Captain of a ship that can’t move, sir.” 

Francis is no less bemused when he raises an eyebrow at Thomas, “What are you going to do about it?”

Since their ensnarement in the ice life has ceased to be a series of problems to be solved and become instead a series of limitations to be met. Being the Captain’s Steward isn’t about work anymore, it is about relieving boredom and melancholia.

“Whatever you want me to do, sir, however scandalous.” Thomas answers, subtly flirtatious.

Frivolous notions spark to Francis’s mind, turning his mouth dry and flushing his face. He’s committed  _ scandalous activities  _ with Jopson before. The danger of long polar voyages always drew them closer. The immediate peril urged them to seize the immediate opportunity; wildly and passionately they sought to know what delights existence afforded before they yielded to death. Snatching their pleasures with rough strife through the iron gates of life.

Crozier invited Jopson’s hazardous affections into his life when Sophia Craycroft first rejected his proposal. He drank himself into a state, in which it seemed reasonable to take his attractive young steward into his bed. He did not have to spend extra money on Thomas, and there would be no risk of a report that he had attended a brothel in Hobart.

_ The ship was anchored and idle in the quay, empty say for the two of them on this occasion. Thomas was a sweet, incorruptible youth of twenty one years, who suspected it was some sort of trick or test in the beginning, when his Captain kissed him on the lips without warning and led him into the secluded confines of his berth. _

_ Sweat soaked their white cotton shirts in the heat of the south Australian summer. _

_ "Get this off, you must be boiling." Francis drunkenly remarked, pulling carelessly at the lad's buttons. _

_ "Sir, it's one kind gesture to kiss me but a far more dangerous affair to have me disrobe in your berth." Thomas reasoned patiently. _

_ "Don't be ashamed of your nakedness, you have the body of a Pre-Raphaelite angel." Francis besieged dizzily. _

_ "I don't wish to contend with your regrets when you're sober." _

_ "The only thing I regret is not doing this sooner." Francis slurred thirstily and wondered at the beauty of Thomas's revealed upper physique; sporting, agile and toned. _

_ Thomas exhibited no signs of fear, shyness or surprise. He was as calm and pleasing as when he shaved and groomed Francis. _

_ "I advise you not to dress me down any further." He said nonchalantly while letting Francis look at him and feel his skin. _

_ "You give me good advice but I seldom follow it." Francis moved behind Thomas and the lad tried to face him but Francis held him by the hips and told him to stay still so he could kiss the divets on his lower back.  _

_ Thomas finally let out a whimper at the unexpected feeling on the sensitive small of his back.  _

_ "Sir, it's getting harder and harder for me to keep to the code."  _

_ "Hang it for now, boy, so long as this is what you want." _

_ "I don't know for sure. I should be wary of the consequences but… I'm curious. I'm sorry, sir." _

_ "If you play along you may have your first slices of succulent pineapple." Francis encouraged. _

_ "Oh, thank you, sir." Thomas grew eager. _

_ "Well?" _

_ "I'm your servant, Captain, you may do whatever you please with me."  _

_ "Good." Francis rewarded this submission with another nip to Thomas's lower back before undoing the lad's breeches. _

_ He pulled the clothing down to Thomas's ankles and was pleasantly surprised by the shapely behind. He left a row of kisses from the stark tanline to the back of the knee. _

_ The Captain had his servant dress in nothing but dark scarlet, silk stockings, and ordered him to hold a pillow over his face; this way the dejected older man could release his built-up lust and wrath without recalling a recipient. His plan backfired, however, for even now, years on, he remembers how it was and who it was with. _

_ He can vividly recall having the lad lie on his stomach on his bed, sitting on his legs to entrap him and rubbing the oil into his arsehole, the perfect steward squirmed beneath him. He then had Thomas lie on his back. The intrigue and youthful passion in Thomas's eyes before he hid his face behind the cushion comes readily to mind.  _

_ He longs to hear Thomas’s stifled moans again, but the lad only ever made those sounds once, Francis never asked him if it was because it was his first time. Sober retro thought paints a picture of a poor boy being tempted into giving up his innocence for the promise of an exotic fruit, Francis is ashamed of his actions. But Thomas still looks at him lovingly and has moaned more zealously for him since.  _

_ Thomas long regarded that incident as a small victory for himself; he was able to taste something new and make his Captain happy. _

_ If Francis had wanted to put an end to their affairs, he should not have gone out of his way to see Thomas again once they returned to England. Yet, after a second rejection from Craycroft, Francis took Thomas out for an expensive meal in London; he had booked a table in advance and had no plus one.  _

_ He gave Thomas the opportunity to taste foods the poor lad would usually only serve, or watch Francis eat while green with envy and insatiable gluttony. Francis might never have seen Thomas so happy and rosy cheeked as when he was off duty, ashore and well fed. They talked about the common careers of their father's, having made good profits in the textile industry, and laughed about their squalid time in the Falklands; how pompous and useless that young, fat Lieutenant governor was; how hilariously their aid and supply ship, Craysfort, had arrived with such a senselessly drunk crew and captain, that Carysfort ended up requiring Erebus's assistance more so than they could assist Erebus and Terror. _

_ Francis had not planned for the night to be long, but Thomas was adamant that he must escort him back to his hotel room. Then it had not been difficult for Thomas to persuade Francis to let him stay the night. It would have been unfair to send him back through the cold rain and lonely darkness of the London streets. _

_ Francis let himself be seduced by the more adult version of the lad he'd taken advantage of in Tasmania Three years earlier.  _

_ They were both drunk in this instance, and Francis was certain Thomas enjoyed the luxury of the hotel room more than his own company. It was always going to be difficult for Francis to see what Thomas saw in him. At times he thinks Thomas is not unlike a pilot fish; swimming dangerously alongside a shark, cleaning it and scavenging from its larder.  _

Presently, Francis wants to practice restraint, it’s too soon after a Sir John’s funeral to go about abusing one’s rank. Thomas does not make it easy for him. Francis narrows his eyes at the younger man. “Don’t get distracted from your work, lad.”

“Aye sir.” the steward obeys, turns his attention to clearing smudged fingerprints from the book cabinet. 

He hears booted footsteps come to stand behind him. The Captain’s whiskey laden breath is warm against his neck. A shiver runs down Jopson’s spine and his cheeks suddenly feel hot. He tries to will away any signs of improper bashfulness.

Crozier opens the cabinet and tries to wedge out one of the tightly packed books above Jopson’s head. Seeing that Crozier is accidently pulling out the books either side of the one he wants, and is doing nothing to stop it, Jopson’s hand jolts up to press the loose books back into place before they fall. The hurried motion ends in a loud thud. 

Crozier temporarily abandons his intentions for the book and lets his hand linger a while over Jopson’s. He presses the smaller man bodily against the cabinet and sniffs his soft, herbal scented hair.

He lets himself indulge a moment, loosening Jopson’s cravat and collar so he can nuzzle the lad's warm, pale neck with his pink, chill benumbed nose, and place a few more kisses and bites there. Jopson reciprocates with sweet, encouraging sounds and leans into Crozier for warmth and other delights.

More of Jopson’s flesh is exposed to the cool air as his Captain lifts layers of clothing away, not quite stripping him but making it just possible for Crozier to run his calloused palms over the Jopson’s lightly furred stomach and glide slowly upwards. 

Thomas draws a sharp breath as one of his nipples is teased, meanwhile the Captain's other hand is rubbing circles over his waist and creeping precariously lower.

Crozier’s years of working with coarse ropes and splintered wood in the freezing cold have left a toll on his hands, Jopson feels like warm silk by comparison, finding something so pleasant to touch is a rare pleasure.

A tide of muffled laughter rises and falls through the walls, Francis remembers where he is and suddenly he’s acutely aware that the door to the great cabin is not locked. He pictures the interior of the lock and wishes he could turn it with his thoughts alone.

Francis gives Thomas one last affectionate kiss on the cheek and whispers “Thank you.” Before retreating with his book.

Jopson watches disappointedly as Crozier reclines in his sleeping chair, which is indistinguishable from the other chairs except it’s always the one he chooses to dose off in, and starts reading. The younger man is far too distracted to carry on working now. If he doesn't come up with a plan of action soon, he’s afraid he’ll be sent back to the brumal, humid, oppressive side of the line, where the men act like rats; entangled by the tail and cannibalistic.

“…What are you reading, sir?” 

“Admiral Anson’s Journal for _ HMS Centurion _ .” Answers the Captain.

“What happens in it?”

“I’m at the part where, after winning a battle against two man-of-war vessels in a storm off Cape Horn, the admiral has to cut his fore-top-man down because his fingers are stuck solid to the top-sil-yards.”

“Frozen from fear?” Jopson clarifies.

Crozier nods gravely at him and carries on reading from where he alleges to have left off. 

A mischievous smile plays on Jopson’s lips. “Are you going to pretend to read that and spy on me again?” 

“I do no such thing!” Crozier feigns outrage.

“Looking doesn’t do any harm, sir.” Jopson chuckles lightly. “What would you like me to clean next?”

“Would you collect the cinders from the fireplace?” 

Jopson saunters across the room, smirking, “If you want me to bend over for you there are better ways than this.”

“There are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt up in your philosophy.” Crozier repeats dismissively.

Jopson giggles as he picks up the clunky metal pan and brush set beside the small, black, iron fireplace. He bends to sweep up the ashes and of course, Crozier watches him.

"Enjoy the view, old man." Thomas scoffs.

The Captain draws a deep sigh and puts his hand on his forehead. “Thomas,” He begins tiredly, “As a rule you’re quite charming to me. I can usually talk to you about anything… now and then, however, you are horribly thoughtless… and you seem to take real delight in giving me pain.” 

"I delight in receiving pain as well as giving it, sir. Else I wouldn’t have asked for you to wrap your belt around my neck and call me a dog when you last had your way with me, back in London.” 

“Please, Thomas, you can’t talk to me like this while we’re at sea!” The captain protests quite helplessly, his whole face turns scarlet with shyness as he recalls the events of  _ that night _ .

“Not to worry, Cap’n, I see how it is.” Jopson asserts with a loving smile as he empties the cinders into a bin to be disposed of later. He claps his hands free of the ashes, and straightens himself and his uniform. “Despite a two year delay you still intend not to so much as speak of the matter until we get home.”

“I know it seems unreasonable, Thomas. But I want to do things by the book, to the letter. That becomes increasingly difficult when young men on my ship decide they are going to take advantage of my loneliness.” Crozier reasons desperately.

“I don’t think it wise to get into a discussion about who took advantage of who, sir. If you want me to be silent and chaste then I will be, as long as you keep your hands to yourself.” Thomas chides playfully.

“I’m sorry for taking liberties. I’m quite drunk.” Crozier excuses himself worriedly. 

“Would you like tea with the officers, sir?” Jopson asks in a chipper voice.

“I’d rather not see anyone... Or do you suppose I should put aside my moods and force myself to be gregarious?” Crozier questions with the sort of drunken smile and snort that indicates he finds the idea silly.

Jopson studies him quietly before answering, for it’s in his own immediate interest to keep Francis to himself and find a way to curl up with him in the cozy warmth of his bed, but his duty overrides his want, “You may have put the duty off too often, sir.” he warns.

“What difference does it make? I can leave it till tomorrow.” He shrugs carelessly.

“If this were your last night you would perhaps wish you’d left your officers with some advice and encouragement...”

“Last night! What do you mean by that!” Crozier cuts him off angrily.

“I only meant to tell you what I would do if I was in your position, sir. Since you asked me.” Jopson assures him tamely.

“You’re not to talk like that. Don’t talk about death. It’s unhealthy!” Crozier snaps.

“Aye, sir.”

“If this were my last night on earth, I wouldn’t spend it performing my duties.” Crozier snorts. He lays the book on the table so he can pour himself another whiskey.

That's done it, Thomas is determined to satisfy his own baser needs now. But Francis is one drink away from impotence, if he's lucky.

“Sir.” Thomas smiles angelically and tilts his head to one side. He drifts slowly in Francis’s direction and speaks in a soothing voice, “You have a very lonely duty and a tight ship to run.” 

Before Francis can pour a new drink, Jopson puts his hand over the glass. 

“Impertinence.” Grumbles Francis, he’s still threatening to dowse Jopson’s hand in whisky if he doesn’t remove it.

“Tell me what I can do to make things easier for you, sir. Let me make you happy.” Thomas offers sweetly, eyes sparkling like a sunlit bay. 

Francis lets go of the decanter so he can cup Thomas’s cheek. His chest is a well of emotions, but he can’t think of anything charming to say in return.

Thomas gets onto his knees and lazily runs both hands along the insides of his master’s thighs. Although he enjoys these loving strokes through his uniform, and despite pangs of lust, Francis cannot shake the feeling that this is a dangerous thing to allow; it will not end well, it can’t be accomplished comfortably or discreetly aboard a ship in jeopardy.

“Wait... let’s go hunting.” he blurts out.

“Hunting, sir?” Thomas stares up at him in surprise, rests his hands on the Captain’s lap. The lad still looks adorable down there with his rose dusted cheeks and misty, pleading gaze. 

“It would be a legal and decent way to spend your lustful energies.” Francis illuminates bashfully, averting his gaze from Thomas’s hypnotic stare.

“And you don’t have any?” Thomas asks unhappily.

“ _ Our _ lustful energies, then. It would be a constructive activity that we could do together, openly.” Francis reasons.

"You can't go outside in a whiteout, sir. If you want a public display of platonic affection, I think you should invite the Lieutenants to tea.” 

"Looks like we're stuck here.”

“So why don’t we?”

“Take my coat back to your berth for repairs and leave me alone.” 

“To hell with your coat and may you never have a day’s luck with it.” Thomas cracks and dips his hand between Francis's legs again.

"This is a British Man o' war, not an Ottoman's brothel." Francis protests.

“You’re getting firmer now but you still can’t manage a firm ‘ _ no _ ’.” Thomas flirts as he unbuttons his Captain's fly.

He’s undeniably hard, the stimulation of Thomas's cool fingers on his thickening cock forces him to close his eyes and bite back a moan. “Oh… Thomas... I’m afraid...”

“What are you afraid of, Captain?” Thomas asks softly while squeezing the hot appendage in his hand.

“If we get caught…” His voice is brittle, he shudders with desire as the steward moves his fist up and down. 

“No one comes in here without your permission.” Thomas says before administering his tongue to Francis's shaft.

“...We’ll be... locked in burning coffins or forced to walk in circles across a desert -Oh god.” Francis foretells, then he bites his knuckle to block a moan as his cock is engulfed in the pleasant warmth of Thomas's mouth.

He pets the lad's head gently as his servant sucks him off.

Thomas's mouth is absent all too soon, the lad moves to straddle him in his chair and loosen his own beeches so he may lower himself onto Francis’s saliva slicked dick. It's a tight squeeze that elates them. Thomas cups Francis's face affectionately.

“That’s okay as long as we’re together.” Thomas consoles lovingly before kissing him again.

Francis deepens the kiss and wraps his arms around Thomas.

When they part to breathe laboriously, Francis gasps, “I won’t leave thee, Thomas.” he wants to pull him as close as possible. He runs his fingers through Thomas’s ebony hair, marveling at the contrast between the dark roots and pale forehead. Some of the thick strands are turning bluish grey closer to his head.

After so many years together the two men are so familiar with each other that they can barely distinguish each other's limbs when they embrace.


End file.
